


Scarlet stitches

by ElenyasBlood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wounds, stubborn brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenyasBlood/pseuds/ElenyasBlood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hunt, Dean and Sam have trouble patching each other up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet stitches

The bed springs creaked under the heavy weight of Dean's body as he dropped onto the mattress, shifting uneasily under his brother's gaze.

“I'm just saying I can take care of myself, dude,” he scoffed and jerked his arm out of his brother's reach, tucking it against his chest and thoroughly ignoring the stinging wound running along his bicep.

Sam snorted. “God, Dean, would you please stop being a complete jackass for once in your life and let me take care of you?”

“I'm not a jackass, _jackass_. I'm just tired of being- never mind. And now give me that fucking needle and I'll finish it.” Dean's voice dripped with annoyance, laced with pain and what could be concern when he glanced over Sam's hunched form, the blood soaking the boy's shirt and dripping down his face.

The look on Sam's face was stern and his jaw tightly clenched when he shook his head. “No,” he stated, pushing into Dean's space again, crowding him against the damp wall. And just like that he attempted to go to work again.

But Dean would have none of it. “Will you drop it now, dude?” he yelled, straining his hands against Sam's chest in an attempt to bring some distance between their battered bodies. “Look at you; you're fucking wasted yourself and I. Can. Take. Care. Of. Myself.”

“Yeah, like you could back in the fucking shed when you let yourself be shredded by that wolf's claws, huh?” Sam snapped, grinding his teeth. There was a sheen of sweat shimmering on his brows and his face was drained of any color, lips stained with scarlet blood and an ugly bruise blooming on his cheek. He looked just as messed up as Dean: clothes shredded, hair disheveled, coated in werewolf goo and palms scraped and bleeding.

Dean flinched. “Can it, dude. Wasn't my fucking fault they came prepared. And it was you who called for help when one of those guys crowded in if I recall the events correctly. Wasn't it you who was writhing on your back, trying to fight off that thing until I -ouch- jumped in to save your pretty ass?”

“Yeah, Dean, you're my hero,” Sam replied curtly, his voice coming in short gasps. There was more blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt as Dean tried to push his brother off again. But the attempt was weak as were his limbs and Sam was annoyingly insistent.

“Fuck off, bitch,” Dean slurred after a few beats of breathless silence and let his head drop against the wall as he felt the gentle press of Sam's fingers against the gash in his skin, the wound spitting blood and sending convulsions of pain through the hunter's bones. It wasn't that deep, but it stung like a bitch, and soon Dean's tongue grew heavy from the blood loss. Too tired to argue and too comfortable in his position on the soft mattress, he let Sam finish his work.

It was no use arguing with his brother anyway; Sam wouldn't back off. He was stubborn and strong and - _god_ , there was even more blood spilling into his shirt when Sam got up after wrapping a bandage around Dean's arm.

“S-Sam,” Dean mumbled, trying to get up to close the gap between their bodies only to groan under the sharp, sudden ache that flared through his body, painfully reminding him that his shoulder wasn't the only thing injured. With his right knee almost dislocated and a second, more shallow cut down his calf, Dean was rather immobilized and his arms flailed wildly as he fell back against the cushions.

Sam leveled a warning gaze at his brother. “Dean, can you please stop pulling that over-protective shit on me and stay the fuck down? I'm not five anymore and you're-” Sam made a vague gesture, including Dean's whole bruised and bloodied self- “ _you_. So for once in your life shut the fuck up, take your painkillers and let me get out of my dirty clothes, will ya?”

Dean wanted to protest, he really did, even if it was just for the sake of it, and he didn't like the bossy tone Sam was using as of late. But with his vision pleasantly blurred and the soft press of Sam's fingers against his lips as he urged an aspirin down his brother's throat, Dean found himself successfully shut down. The images behind his lids were filled with Sam's injured body when he closed his eyes, the raw flesh of his brother's bottom lip where it was split open, the dark bruises and the damp patch of scarlet blood spreading on the fabric right above Sam's ribcage, but the fight had left Dean exhausted and robbed of all strength and the claw marks on his shoulder burned under the bandage. A dull pain was pounding in the back of his head and though every inch of skin ached, sleep was about to make its appearance shortly.

“S-Sam, Sammy,” Dean murmured and almost flinched at the annoyed groan that wrenched out of Sam's chest. “You gotta... take care of that... you're bleeding.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Sam replied, clipped and with a sharp edge to his words. His breathing labored, he shuffled around in the room, obviously ruffling through his duffle bag.

Dean was about to say something in response but by the time he found his tongue, Sam was already gone and the quiet click of the bathroom door signaled that Dean was alone.

 ♦ 

Sam winced when he caught a first glimpse of his wrecked self in the mirror. With a bruise covering the better side of his right side and his nose already swelling from the hard swing one of the werewolves had landed on him, he looked like a boxer. And not a very good one.

His clothing was caked with what appeared to be mostly his own blood, his forearms burned with shallow scratches, and there was a piercing pain coursing through his body, spreading from a patch of lacerated skin right above his ribcage. Sam knew without further inspection that the wound needed stitching and though it would take a certain amount of time and skill, he decided against waking up Dean again and chose to do it himself instead. He was quick with the needle and his fingers were already loose and nimble from patching up his brother-- he would manage.

Without wasting breath and time, Sam stripped out of his clothing, biting back the hissing noises that pooled in his chest every time he moved. The crusted blood aggravated his futile attempts to make this work without doing further damage and soon Sam was drenched in sweat, perspiration trickling out of his hairline, thick and sticky and adding a burn to his bruised cheek. He was only halfway done with undressing when his vision grayed out and Sam decided that it was good enough.

Jacket and shirt gone, he went for the sink first, hands idly fumbling with the faucet before dropping them under the spray. The cold was like a shock and Sam felt it pin-pricking along his spine as he leaned in to get rid of the blood and dirt his face sported, hissing under the freezing kiss and shuddering once, twice, as his hands went for the towel.

The rest was routine. Getting rid of the water on his face first, then expanding his washing ritual over his chest and along the trail of coarse hair down his belly, slowly and carefully avoiding the gaping wound on his side. Then the stitching. He wasn't exactly precise with the needle to say the least, but his fingers were shaking almost violently by now and deprived of sleep and proper pain killers he felt his mind reeling, spinning, tumbling.

By the time Sam was done he couldn't even look straight anymore. His vision had blurred around the edges and at some point he'd threaded the needle through a bunch of nerves so violently, it had made him choke on the sparks of white-hot pain that kicked through his veins. Staggering to his feet only made the whole nausea currently located in his belly and throat only worse and without giving a flying fuck about the scratches along his forearms -that certainly needed disinfectant and medical attention, too- Sam tumbled back into the motel room.

The lights were low and Dean's form wasn't moving on the mattress, but he seemed okay, snoring loudly and snuggling deeper into the pillow. He had somehow managed to strip out of his jeans and Sam couldn't help but crack a pained smile at the way his brother had twisted his legs around the sheets. “Jerk,” Sam mumbled as he stepped closer to pull the blanket a little higher around Dean's shoulders, covering his resting body for warmth and comfort. He hovered over his brother for another two or three seconds as he listened to Dean's shallow, steady breathing before teetering over to his own bed, where he outright face-planted into the pillows.

 ♦ 

Startled by his own muffled cries, Sam woke up again around 6am. Though the sun was still hiding behind a thick layer of clouds, the horizon was already softly tinged azure and fuzzy light filtered through the curtains. Rain poured down outside and there was something wet inside Sam's bed, clinging to his skin. It was warm and Sam didn't mind its stickiness. What he did mind though, was the screaming, piercing, violent pain that spiked through his side as he tried to sit up, more warm wetness soaking into the sheets. It was ridiculous, but with his mind hazy from sleep and his eyes not quite wanting to adjust the half-dark, the idea of the roof leaking into his bed seemed like an absolutely plausible explanation to Sam-- until he felt the bed dip under the weight of his brother, that is.

“Fucking hell, Sammy,” Dean croaked out and suddenly there were hands on Sam's chest, clawing off the comforter and stealing body heat and the breath from Sam's lungs.

“Just a few more minutes,” Sam mumbled, completely unaware of the panic crowding his brother's smooth voice. “'M tired-”

“Sam, Sammy? Shit, you gotta wake up. Open your eyes. Right now.” It was an order sharp as a whiplash and Sam groaned defiantly as he successfully cracked an eye open.

“What is it?” he demanded to know, trying to snatch the strangely wet and heavy blanket from his brother's fingers.

Dean gulped. “What it is? What the fuck _is_ it?” There was a hitch in the hunter's voice Sam really didn't want to explore right now. He just wanted to lay down and sleep a while more, just sleep, sleep until the nagging pain in his side went away.

“Shit Sammy, you're fucking bleeding out,” Dean exclaimed as he pointedly threw the comforter away in favor of clutching Sam's bicep. “Come on, we're gonna- oh god, the sheets... how- _fuck_!”

And then his cool hands were all over Sam, brushing down his cheeks and neck before applying gentle pressure to the dip of his chest. His eyes were wide and wild and Sam felt himself becoming uneasy. Had he done something wrong? Was he not-

“Ouch, fuck-” he gritted out abruptly as Dean's palm reached his side, gentle fingers running along the burning, searing, heavily bleeding crack in his skin.

“You fucking idiot, why didn't you patch yourself up?” Dean thundered above Sam, furious, his hands shaking slightly against the raw flesh above Sam's ribcage.

Sam opened his mouth to protest but Dean was already hauling him up, shoulder knocking into Sam's arm pit as he pulled him into an upright position and onto his feet. “Bathroom,” Dean snarled, flinching when he felt Sam waver under the heavy blood loss. He was pale as a ghost.

Later neither of them could recall how they made it into the bathroom, but after what felt like an eternity Sam finally settled on the edge of the tub, carefully steadied by Dean's hands.

“You complete and utter idiot,” Dean gritted out between clenched teeth. “I told you to get the wound stitched, didn't I?”

Sam snorted. “And I did,” he slurred, tongue lazy, and for some reason he couldn't properly open his eyes to examine the situation himself. It felt like there was a leaden weight attached to his lids and shoulders and he would have toppled over for sure if it hadn't been for Dean's hard grip around him.

“Yeah, you did a fucking piss poor job with it, stupid,” Dean bellowed and his breath came in short, shallow gasps as he reached for the sewing kit still waiting by the sink.

Sam tried to shake his head, but it only added to the spinning inside his head. “A l-little pity for the wounded h-here,” he wheezed and let his hand curl around the lip of the bath tub, his fingers brushing Dean's wrist in the process and- it was funny, but in stark contrast to Sam's slow, lazy pulse, Dean's was jackrabbiting. Hilarious, really.

Dean only snarled in response and then he was crowding into Sam's space, pinning him down on the cold porcelain and pushing his arm away as he pressed a cool cloth against the gaping wound.

A sharp hiss rolled off Sam's tongue and he was tempted to wrench himself out of Dean's grip. But the sluggish haze that still cushioned his senses condemned him to stay were he was, his brother sprawled against his side and tender fingers caressing the smoldering gash.

“'M gonna need to stitch that again, Sammy,” Dean mumbled as he reached for the disinfectant and another set of needles, thread already attached.

Sam hummed his agreement though he didn't exactly grasp his brother's words. But Dean was here and he would make it alright. He would make the pain raging inside his body go away, he would fix Sam again.

“'S gonna hurt, Sam. But you gotta trust me, okay?” Dean huffed out and it was then when it finally sunk in. The perception that something wasn't right and it had to do with Sam-- cause Dean was frantic. And Dean was never frantic. He didn't _do_ frantic.

Sam nodded. “I do,” he mumbled and though his voice slurred into an incoherent mush, Dean understood.

“Keep a hold of me; 's gonna be...” Dean didn't finish his last sentence and seconds later the silence of the motel room was broken by Sam's muffled sobs, his low groans and the pained whimpers pulled out of his chest by the needle going into his body.

Sam didn't know how long he had sat on the edge of the tub, fingers clamped around the porcelain and his teeth chattering. He couldn't bear to tear his eyes open after he caught a tiny glimpse of the bloody mess that was his right side, Dean's fingers buried beneath his skin, working frantically to sew the patches and stop the blood from pouring, pouring, pouring out of his body. But Sam's flesh was raw and the edges frayed and the needle slipped in the tacky environment ever so often, poking holes into hot muscles and scraping against solid bone. The pain had morphed from searing to raging and by the time Dean was finished, his hands now pressing a clean a bandage against his brother's heaving ribcage, Sam was barely conscious.

Somehow they made it back into the motel room, Dean's arm wrapped around his brother's waist, steadying him and slowly lowering him into his own bed once they reached the far wall. The hunter's breath was jagged now, but he didn't allow himself to get some rest.

Gathering some pain killers, a bottle of water and a cool wash cloth from the sink, Dean limped through the half-light, muttering curses. He shouldn't have let himself pass out last night! He shouldn't have let Sam-

“Dean?” Sam's throaty moan interrupted Dean's train of thought before it could leave the station and for the moment it was good. It was the right thing to do, focusing entirely on the trembling body in his bed and not letting the guilt wash over him, numbing his senses. Sam _needed_ him now.

“Hey,” Dean mumbled as he dropped the supplies on the nightstand, fingers brushing across his brother's sticky forehead. “How you feeling?”

Sam wrenched out what could be a low chuckle. “Wasted,” he wheezed and tried to keep his eyes from falling shut.

“Well, you look like shit,” Dean commented, taking another calculating look on the bandages across his brother's chest as they slowly became drenched in scarlet and pink. Taking the pain killers and shoving them down Sam's throat, Dean watched as Sam gulped down the water in hungry swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. Afterward he fell back against the pillows.

“Tired,” Sam slurred and let his brother feel his pulse, brush his hair from his temples, rearrange his limbs to climb under the covers next to him.

“It's alright,” Dean huffed and shifted until he found a comfortable position, his arms cradling his little brother's body, pulling him against his aching chest, careful not to jostle him. “Sleep, Sam. I'm gonna take care of you.”

And just like that Sam let his lids droop, his breath evening out and his mind going blank. “You okay?” he managed to choke out around a jaw-cracking yawn. The pain was still thumping in his side, dull and menacing, but it would be okay. Dean had made it all right.

“Yeah, Sammy,” his brother mumbled against Sam's temple, wet lips brushing the tacky skin as he placed the cool wash cloth on the wounded man's forehead. “I'm alright, I'm here.”

“N-Not gonna leave, right?” It was clearly the exhaustion and the blood loss speaking now, but neither of the brothers cared as Dean shook his head softly.

“'M not gonna go anywhere,” he replied as he took a deep inhale, drinking it all in: the warmth emanating from Sam's body, the smell of blood and antiseptic and sweat, the shallow breaths and the little pained gasps in between when his wound stirred. It wasn't good or satisfying, but it was familiar. It was _them;_ it was all they had.

It was home.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Vicki](http://croatoansammy.tumblr.com/), because she won the second prize of my ficlet give away and because she's a sweetie pie who deserves all the love. 
> 
> Beta'd by my beautiful [wolf puppy.](http://wincechesters.tumblr.com/)
> 
> xx


End file.
